Falling in Love with English Boys Read online

  She is. According to the Misses Quinn, Miss Northrop has ten thousand pounds now, and will almost certainly have that again upon the death of her grandmother. She does not have to be kind. She does not have to be pretty. She does not have to be friends with the other girls in her circle. She is rich. She will be courted by some men, no matter how ill she behaves. And Miss Northrop is not stupid. On the contrary, she is very clever.

  As Mama says, One may hide cruel. One may even hide a certain amount of madness. One can never hide stupidity.

  The men are flocking to her. I suppose they cannot be blamed for thinking she is a far more pleasant creature than she is. She shows them only her agreeable side. And as Luisa says, if women often consider money when weighing the appeal of a gentleman, shouldn’t gentlemen, who are far less influenced by their hearts, be allowed to do the same?

  If I were more generous of spirit, perhaps I would agree. As it is, I am merely reminded of Lord Chilham’s odiousness. He does not care a whit for my character; I see it clearly in his eyes. But I am pretty and I am possessed of a decent fortune. And in that lies enough for him.

  I am not mistaken. I wish I could be.

  I wish, too, that I could be mistaken in Papa’s intent. Perhaps I am. Perhaps I am being silly and stupid, seeing things that are not there. Perhaps he does not think it would be a good match (oh, how could anyone but Chilham think it a good match!). Yes, certainly silly.

  I do not wish to think of Chilham, not when tonight’s party brought such a joyous moment. I have lived and relived it, almost teasing myself into thinking it was not real, that even to write it down would make it not so.

  I danced with Thomas. That, of course, is not The Moment, but it was the beginning. He sought me out not ten minutes after my arrival, and claimed the country dance. How lovely to hold his hand and to have him smile each time we were reunited in the set. As we walked onto the dance floor, he whispered into my ear:

  “Long and empty days may be,

  with much to weary and naught to please.

  For me, this eve a beacon was,

  A promise of pleasure and of ease . . .

  I confess, my heart skipped.

  I believe I blushed, too, which would have been mortifying had not he looked softly on my face in that moment, and said, “The dance suits you, Miss Percival.”

  I suspect that in that instant, I glowed like a star.

  Of course, it did not last. How could it for me? As we neared the end of the set, in the final turn, he held my hand tightly and announced, “We shall not meet again for some days.”

  I could not hide my distress. I was able to make it seem less than it was, certainly. I am not so careless as to show all that I feel. Still, I know I did not appear unconcerned when I asked why.

  “A house party in Kent,” was his reply. “A tedious engagement, but one I must honour as it was planned some time ago. I would much rather stay.”

  “How long will you be away?”

  “Five days, I expect. Perhaps as much as a sennight. I must, of course, be ruled by the whims of my hosts. I am loath to disappoint them.”

  (“What of me?” I wished I could demand. “Are you not loath to disappoint me? Seven days without you!”)

  “Of course, I should be loath to disappoint others,” he said, almost before the words had left my head, “if I thought . . . there might be cause.”

  In that moment, he looked hopeful. I do believe he looked hopeful. He certainly looked very, very handsome, gazing down at me from under his bronze curls. I almost could not speak.

  “I . . . am certain there . . . is cause,” I managed.

  “Good,” he said, and brightened, like the sun coming from behind a cloud. “Very good.” Then, much more blithely: “You will keep note of all that happens in my absence, will you not, kind Miss Percival? And you will share it with me in some long, quiet meeting when I return?”

  His alteration from melancholy to pert nearly made me dizzy. Or, rather, I was near giddy with the knowledge that he cares for me. Of course I agreed. As we parted, he gave me the last lines.

  “Days may pass ere I return,

  in which a gentleman might yearn.”

  He returned me to the parlor, where Luisa was chatting with Charles and Nicholas. Charles seemed happy as always; he never seems to mind being in Luisa’s company, even if she is merely a friend of his younger sister. Nicholas, as seems to be the way of things since the Bellingham disaster, scowled when he saw me. He grunted a greeting; he would not be so rude as to snub me, not ever-proper Sir Nicholas Everard, scourge of all things impolite. Charles laughed at me.

  “You are all pink in the cheeks!” he announced. I wanted to kick him in the shins. “Should I call out Baker for dancing you too briskly?”

  Luisa, as always, was perfect. “You do seem overwarm. Shall we fetch ourselves something to drink?” She knew something important had transpired.

  As soon as we were in a quiet spot, I told her all, being certain not to leave out so much as a quirk of his eyebrows or pause in his speech. Luisa listened quietly until I was quite done.

  “I am happy for your happiness,” she told me. “I must say, however, that I shall be even happier when he openly declares himself to you.”

  Well, of course, so shall I. “I love you, Katherine” is ever so much more promising than “Good”, but “Good” will be good enough until I have better.

  I shall not sleep tonight, I know. He left me with a poem. I plague myself with questions.

  How shall my heart bear such a bursting sensation?

  How shall I bear a sennight without him?

  31 May

  I miss Mr. Baker terribly. It has only been two days, yet it feels an eternity.

  I have endeavoured to be home as little as possible. How low I feel, how dishonest. Yet, I cannot stomach the thought of another encounter with Chilham, and as Father remains much in his company, it seems I must also avoid the person I care for most in order to avoid the one I like least. Mama has been of help. She has been quite well enough to escort me during the day. We have been to Bond Street in search of new fashions, to the gardens at Kew for a fashionable picnic in the shade of the Chinese Pagoda, and, despite my reluctance, to the British Museum in search, she says, of something fashionable for the brain.

  “Try to see the beauty, Katherine,” she snapped more than once as we examined a stone body without a head, or stone head without a body. I could not help giggling each time we passed a marble bottom. I know I should not speak of it, but then, what else are diaries for, but the things we cannot mention in company?

  I confess, I found our visit to the Tower most exciting. How many people have walked through those stone ramparts through the centuries, never to walk out? What did Anne Boleyn dream of within those walls? Did she believe, every day, even after her sentence of death, that her husband, King Henry, would relent and come himself to release her from her cold cell?

  “Perhaps she thought love would conquer all,” I mused as we left the little rooms where she spent her final days.

  “Perhaps she should have thought twice before marrying a man who disposed so handily of his first wife,” was Mama’s dry retort.

  She is not a great lover of King Henry. He was, no doubt, rather hard on his wives. Mama’s novel in verse, which she says is nearly complete, is titled The Abandoned Bride. I have not read it. I suspect it is neither sufficiently romantic nor dramatic. The Tower is.

  Did the little nephews of cowardly Richard III play within those walls, bouncing balls down the stairs, certain they would soon be free to play on the heath? Do their bones still rest with the walls, near to where they were murdered? Was that a bloodstain there . . . ? No, merely a shadow. There! No, dark lichen. There . . .

  “Katherine, you are a ghoul.” Mama sighed.

  “Perhaps, but I am the ghoul of someone’s dreams.”

  “Oh, Katherine!”

  Yet she laughed. And I laughed with her. It was . . . swee
t.

  Her headache returned as we toured the decidedly smelly menagerie. I would have very much liked to have stayed a bit longer, seen the lion and the monkeys, but though she did not say so, I could see her discomfort in her eyes and in the set of her mouth. I shall certainly return to the Tower someday. Perhaps with my own daughter.

  As we turned the corner into our street, I spied Lord Chilham’s carriage in front of the house. I confess, I felt ill at the thought of facing him, after such a pleasant afternoon.

  Mama saw it, too. “I believe,” she announced, “this is the perfect time for a strawberry ice at Gunter’s.”

  She does not care for strawberries. And I know ices make her head hurt. Still we went, and had a long interlude in the tea shop, watching people passing by in the street. We chose for each other items of clothing from the more entertaining ensembles. I decreed Mama must have the bulging brown straw hat with the silk cardinal perched atop it. She graciously gifted me the crocheted shawl that looked as if it had been fashioned from a fishing net. We fought fiercely over the blindingly pink dress with purple bows at the hem. By the time we returned home, the men were gone. We had supper together in the Rose Parlor.

  We spoke of small things, of the honeysuckle at Kew, the view of the city from Hampstead Heath, the pretty pearl buttons on the newest gloves. I played the little harpsichord that Papa’s grandmother brought with her from France. I even played tolerably.

  Mama sat curled in her favourite cushiony chair, feet tucked beneath her. In the moment, with the fire behind her and her face softened by shadow, she was familiar, like a mirror.

  “Promise me something, Katherine,” she said in a quiet moment.

  “If I can.”

  “Oh, you can. Promise me this: that you will think, in every moment possible, what you want for yourself. And you will stand for yourself, especially in the times when no one seems interested in standing for you.”

  I did not understand, not really, but I promised nonetheless.

  2 June

  How very vexing war is. Word has arrived in Town that Napoleon’s forces are larger than assumed. They are marching through France. More battles are nearly certain. I do wish they would happen quickly, so our marvelous soldiers could rout him once and for all and end this dismal war. He has eluded defeat far too long.

  We would not allow the news to dampen our pleasure in our entertainments. In fact, the Misses Quinn, Luisa, and I all donned our favourite military colours and went to the Cameron dinner dance. It was very merry. As Mr. Tallisker said (he was wearing a wreath of grape leaves on his head and a makeshift toga atop his evening clothes at the time), “When the world is grim, London sets a happy tone.” Everyone seems determined to eat, drink, and be merry.

  Miss Northrop was not in attendance. It was very pleasant. Of course, all would have been ever so much better had Mr. Baker been present, but I managed to enjoy myself anyway. I danced, I laughed, I found myself the center of a crowd more than once. I felt admired; I felt bold.

  Charles and Nicholas were, for a moment, standing with our crowd in the Camerons’ drawing room. In truth, it was more that we had enveloped them than that they had joined us, but as they have both served under Wellington on the Continent, they are very popular fellows.

  “Are you not frightened to return?” Eleanora Quinn asked Charles.

  “Terrified!” He laughed, appearing anything but.

  “Is Bonaparte truly the size of a child?” someone else demanded.

  “I have not met the man and cannot say, but his opinion of himself is of a giant size.”

  “Is the wine French?”

  “Are there pipers on the field of battle?”

  “However does your valet keep your uniform as elegant it should be?”

  Charles answered all with patience and humour. Nicholas said very little, but did not seem as stern as he often does. Winnie Stuart stood near him, looking slightly awed and a bit moonstruck. She finds him very handsome and very dashing and has asked me several times, as he is a close friend of the family, how he came to get the scar across his brow. She is not the first to ask, nor to hear that he has never told me. He left for war unblemished and returned as he is. Why people cannot ask him, I do not know.

  Well, why should I not be a leader of my set? It made perfect sense to demand, “Do tell us, Sir Nicholas, how you came to get that scar. We ladies have been ever so curious and are near to wagering on the matter. Was it a Frenchman’s rapier? A flashing bayonet? We have come up with the most exciting possibilities and cannot choose among them!”

  There. I had done it.

  My proud satisfaction lasted precisely two seconds.

  “Be so kind as to remove me from your games,” Nicholas said sharply, jaw taut and eyes cool. “I am not a suitable subject.” He gave a terse bow. “If you would excuse me . . .” Then, turning on his heel, he stalked away.

  There was a long moment of silence.

  “Sullen fellow, ain’t he?” Mr. Troughton commented at last.

  “Oh, but so handsome!”

  I do not think Winnie meant to speak aloud. She went crimson with shame, but my friends are not deliberately cruel. Not like he is. The Misses Quinn gamely agreed that he was quite handsome, indeed. Mr. McCoy admitted he wouldn’t mind employing Sir Nicholas’s tailor. Mr. Davison commented that Nicholas had always been a fine fellow at school, capital on the playing field, and always tolerant of the younger boys. Nicholas was forgiven and Winnie’s calf-eyed outburst forgotten.

  I knew my own cheeks were burning. It did not help in the least that Charles and Luisa were both looking at me with the same mix of pity and censure.

  How could he have been so rude! In front of my friends, no less.

  Well, Mama was correct. I must stand for myself, as no one else seemed interested in the task.

  The very best, most killing set-downs played through my mind as I went after him. He would cringe. He would cower. He would rue the day he mocked me over that silly charade . . .

  He was standing on the ballroom balcony, silvered by cold moonlight, and he watched me approach with all the warmth of a stone in winter.

  “You,” I began in my very best Mama voice, “are an ill-mannered boor—”

  “Oh, cork it, Katherine!” he snapped. Around us, I saw heads turning. Nicholas must have noticed, too, for he swept his hand in a sharp arc, gesturing me onto the balcony with him. We were in full sight of the ballroom, but could speak without being overheard. I did not particularly want to stand so close. He nearly radiated heat and anger and it was most disturbing.

  “I really do not think you should speak to me so,” I informed him primly.

  He snorted. “On the contrary, I must. No one else seems willing to. For God’s sake, enough with the vapidity! It does not suit you in the least.”

  “Why, you arrogant—”

  “Enough. I have had enough. Do you want to know how I got this scar? Well, too bad, infant, for I am not going to tell you. I will, however, tell you something of this war you seem to find so charmingly inconvenient, yet entertaining all the same.”

  He leaned forward, quite towering over me, and looked very fierce. “War is not romantic, Katherine, or theatrical. It is hell, pure and simple. It is not dinners and shiny uniforms and commandeered French wine. It is week after week of slogging through mud in split boots under enemy fire. It is arriving at your fortress with but half your regiment still alive and all your rations gone, only to find rats in the stores. It is entering a town after it has been under siege for months and seeing more small crosses at the walls than children in the streets! It is surviving and coming home when many, many far better men did not!

  “For God’s sake, Katherine, think occasionally! With the amount of brain I have seen you using since arriving in Town, you make precisely half of a sensible person. Beauty and liveliness might get you admiration from others, but I cannot imagine that you see much to admire when you look deeply into your mirror!”

>   He was so angry. The scar, whose origin I still do not know, stood out against his anger-flushed skin. For a moment, I wanted to slap him. He would not strike back. I have known him long enough and well enough to be certain of that. Then, suddenly, I wanted to cry. I had no idea, I realised, if he would comfort me.

  I fled, before I could learn that he would not.

  Charles was waiting nearby. He handed me his handkerchief and a cup of lemonade, and blocked me from public view until I could compose myself.

  “You shouldn’t mind him, Kitty,” he said at last. “He doesn’t like to talk about it, about Vittoria. It was . . . frightful, I think.”

  “I do not mean to be silly,” I sniffled. “I do not think I am meant to be.”

  “Of course you don’t. You aren’t. You are meant to be luminous.”

  I blinked at that, pleased. “How poetic of you, Charles.”

  He smiled and tapped me under the chin. “Wasn’t me, old girl. It was Everard.” When I started to smile, he shook his head. “Don’t get complacent. He said you are meant to be luminous, but seem only to manage shiny.”

  Well. How frustratingly like him.

  “Now promise me you won’t keep on pestering the poor fellow. I’ll be back on the Continent sooner or later. I’ll send you long letters, full of gruesome details.”

  Luminous. I am meant to be luminous. If Nicholas Everard, boor that he is, sees that, Thomas Baker must certainly as well.

  3 June

  Our Ackermann’s this month is full of dresses simply meant to be worn by a bride. I find my mind filled with pale silk and satin, with delicate net and lace, and sprays of sweet pea. Everywhere there are thoughts of matrimony. Miss Henrietta Quinn has accepted Mr. Troughton. They shall have their wedding in July. Their children shall be very sweet. They will have very pretty blond curls, and no chins whatsoever.

  Mama received word yesterday that Miss Cameron is to be married. And to Mr. Piper, the parson! Mama is quite pleased for her. Miss Cameron, with her mousy hair, twitchy fingers, and drab grey dresses. To be Mrs. Piper, with that funny little house that looks green in sunlight and always smells of damp.